The Eyes Told
by Demon In The Box
Summary: Good thing she's sleeping, that she doesn't have any idea that he's staring at her right now like some lovesick little kid creaming his pants in the throes of his first crush. That he's mooning over the thought of her eyes alone—just her eyes…
1. Chapter 1

**~The Eyes Told~**

"_True love doesn't need proof.  
The eyes told what heart felt."_

-_Toba Beta_

Summary: Good thing she's sleeping, that she doesn't have any idea that he's staring at her right now like some lovesick little kid creaming his pants in the throes of his first crush. That he's mooning over the thought of her eyesalone—just her _eyes…_

Guys almost always fall asleep after sex; it's a well-known fact.

Well, guess they didn't know anything about girls like Clarke, or guys like him, for that matter. 30 seconds after she comes (and with him, she _always_ comes hard, _and _more than once, you better believe) her eyelids are drooping and her voice goes hazy. Within a minute she's pretty much checked out from the land of the living.

Him, on the other hand, he's never more awake, more alive, than he is after sex, especially after sex with Clarke. He usually watches her sleep for a long while before nodding off himself, the princess tucked under his chin and their arms and legs wound around each other like they were magnetized.

But now he's lying on his side, head propped on his elbow, looking down at her softened, unlined face as she sleeps, mapping the topography of her face with his blunt fingers. Over and over again, they trace her jaw, linger at the soft, silky skin just under her chin—it's so absurdly soft he can't help it—then outline the lush bow of her kiss swollen lips, the rise of her cheekbones—still pink from orgasm—before they rise to brush along the graceful arc of her eyebrows. First one, then the other.

The perfect frame for her beautiful, beautiful eyes.

Before he can stop himself, he lets out a long, dreamy sigh just thinking about it.

_God. You're so __**whipped**__, man. _

Good thing she's sleeping, that she doesn't have any idea that he's staring at her right now like some lovesick little kid creaming his pants in the throes of his first crush. That he's mooning over the thought of her eyesalone—just her _eyes_, for fuck's sake. But they _are_ amazing. When he looks into her eyes he can see a world of colors: deep, oceanic blue and smoky jade, sleepy grey and deep black. Sometimes, when she's angry with him (which is quite a lot, actually, nearly a daily occurrence) they spark like flint, and he swears he can feel their heat when they land on him. Burned raw from her gaze alone. She looks _so_ sexy like that, when she's blazing and bitchy and tracking him with her eyes like she wants to pounce on him and tear him apart—

And now he heaves another sigh—this one different from the first, because something like a purr is building in his chest at the thought of her eyes and how they look when she wants him, when she really wants to fuck him—she looks like she's going to eat him alive and spit out the bones from her bloodied teeth. Hot _damn_—she looks at him like she's starving and he's a banquet on legs.

"Fuck," he whispers, closing his eyes for a minute to try and clear his mind, because the girl needs to sleep. But it doesn't work, this little act of self-denial. He can still see it: the unforgettable sight of her eyes wanting, needing, and begging for what only _he _can give her.

His pulse is racing and he swallows hard, hips shifting restlessly against her. This is…this is selfish of him. Girl _needs_ to sleep. They did it twice already. Twice was _plenty_…

_Third time's the charm _his cock is happy to remind him.

_Yeah_, he readily (perhaps too readily) agrees. _And good things come in threes. Like the sun, the moon and the stars—like me, Clarke and fucking._

With only a little niggle of guilt, he shifts his body until he's lying over her, nudging apart her legs with his knee to settle his hips between the cradle of her thighs, because right now he needs to feel her welcoming heat flush against him, and he groans when he rests his full weight against her, the hard edge of his cock aligned with her slit. Oh. Shit. She's still hot and slick from earlier. He bites his lip to stifle another, louder groan.

"Clarke…" he calls out gently, if a bit hoarsely, so as not to startle her awake. "Clarke…wake up…wake up, Princess…"

God, she feels so _good_. So damn good. His hips move of their own accord, and they begin to rock against her in slow, circular thrusts. He can feel his hardness nudging the lips of her pussy apart, can feel the head of his cock brushing against her entrance. _Damn…_

"Clarke," he calls again, helplessly, pleadingly. "Baby wake up."

He looks up at her face, at her still closed eyes, and her face slackened by sleep. But there's a new tension to the curve of her brow; she's waking up, and she's starting to feel it too, the want. Her puckered mouth is opened in a small _oh_ of awareness, her breath beginning to stutter and gust along with his. But her eyes, her eyes are still closed, and he thinks he will die if she doesn't open them. Because now he needs to see them. He _has _to see them looking back at him.

"_Bellamy_…" she answers, his name born on a heavy sigh, her limbs loosening and opening up around him. Her arms reach out for him, finding his forearms and sliding upwards until they lock around his neck, drawing him closer. Her legs open wider, skating over the curve of his hips until they meet behind his back, her ankles locking together in a possessive grip. And she's moving too, her hips rocking in counterpoint against him, her skin heating against his. She's _definitely _awake now, but her eyes are still closed. _Still sleepy, Princess?_

"_Bellamy_…" she repeats, sounding a trifle annoyed. Really? "I _was _sleeping."

"Sleep when you're old," his voice cracks from the tightness in his throat; his mouth is dry and his mind is in a haze. He can't tear his eyes away from her face. He can't think of anything, anything but her and her beautiful—

"I wanna fuck."

She snorts. "_Big_ surprise."

But she whimpers when he changes the angle and speed of his teasing thrusts, until finally he's had enough; he finds her entrance and slips easily, smoothly inside of her. Her whimper converts to a moan, echoed by his.

"Open your eyes—" he needs to see her looking back at him. Needs to see her wanting him.

And finally, finally she does. Her lids part and she looks up at him, her eyes cloudy from sleep but clear and steady as always, a deep, stormy blue. He feels a punch in the gut the moment her gaze meets his, and he feels like everything's finally right with the world.

Because there it is, what he desperately needs to see—_her_ wanting _him._ But for the first time, in the midst of her tight, slick heat and the brace of her silky thighs around his hips, he notices something else. There is desire in her eyes, yes, he can see it, but behind that familiar heat there is something more, something deeper than just the desire of her body for his. He's too afraid to fully acknowledge it or name it, but he can suddenly see it there now. And an instant later he knows it's something he never wants to lose, something he wants to see in her eyes until the day he dies, until he can see her no more.

He lifts her right leg higher until her ankle hooks over his shoulder, angling his hips a little lower, pushing a little deeper.

"Oh god…_Bellamy_…" Clarke's hands are digging into his back; he can feel the bite of her nails, scoring him, marking him. Sweet pain.

"I love…" he's trying to speak through the blissful fire racing through his blood, the impossible coil of pleasure tightening in his gut with every stroke, every thrust home. "I love…" he repeats, and when his own words penetrate his ears his heart almost stops. Had he just said what he thought he said? Did he really?

"W-what," Clarke asks, tugging at his hair, gasping as she moves with him. She looks dazed, maybe she hadn't really heard what he'd said. She confirmed it in the next moment. "What are you—oh _GOD_—s-saying?"

"_I love your eyes!"_ His says instead, his voice horse, near unrecognizable in the throes of his pleasure, and he struggled to meet her eyes. But now her head was thrown back and her eyes were closed. She was lost in sensation, too close to orgasm.

But he did. He loved her eyes, and he…needed her to know that he…

The words lay trapped in his throat. So he did the only thing he could do, in that moment. He put the words in his eyes. He let them tell her what he couldn't say. He gripped her hair in his hand and brought her face closer to his. "Open your eyes, Clarke, " he commanded, waiting for her to look at him.

When she opened her eyes and met his gaze she gasped. Time seemed to stand still and they gazed at each other for one long, endless moment. Did she see it? What he was trying to say to her? What he couldn't say?

"Bell…b—" Then she fell over the edge, her orgasm crashing down on her in a sudden, fierce wave, and watching her, he soon followed.

A little while later, she was still holding him, her arms wound around his broad shoulders as she lay gentle kisses against his jaw, the hollow of his throat.

Her mouth paused at the shell of his ear, and he shivered from the heat of her breath.

"I love your eyes too, Bellamy," she whispered.

**Note:**

My humble, humble attempt at Bellarke fiction. I know it sucks, so please take it as it is, a little therapy to tide me—all of us—over for the long haul until the Fall premiere, whenever the hell that will be.


	2. Touch Has A Memory

_Touch has a memory. _  
_O say, love, say,_  
_What can I do to kill it and be free_  
_In my old liberty?_

_ John Keats_

_Warm._

Clarke woke just before dawn, the birdsong that surrounded their camp the only accompaniment to Bellamy's gentle breathing as she slowly surfaced towards consciousness, blinking the last of heavy sleep from her eyes.

Warm, and safe.

These were her first thoughts, sensations really, every morning when she woke tangled in him, breathing in the scent of his heated skin, a mixture of smoke, wood, water and her. She needed that scent as much as she needed air, so she took a deep breath to sample it fresh, to hold it in her lungs and let it envelop her. Every morning for the past month, this was her new reality. Just a few short weeks, she knew factually, but it felt like longer. It felt like forever.

She always woke before Bellamy. Even if he chanced to fall asleep before she did, which was rare, Clarke found herself rising from their shared bed long before the first light paled the sky. Soon the rest of the camp would wake as well; living as they did out in the open, with only the natural rhythms of nature to cycle them through their days, the lot of them had developed the habit of falling asleep with the setting sun, and waking when it rose.

She huffed a soft chuckle against Bellamy's chest, a rueful smile tilting her mouth. That is, when Bellamy _let_ her sleep. Last night she'd been suspended in blissful, post-coital rest when he decided it would be a good idea to wake her with the delicious weight of his hips rocking and circling against hers. Not that she regretted it, of course, considering how it had ended, but it had meant less sleep altogether.

A heavy sigh escaped her at the memory, and she nestled a little closer to him, suddenly reluctant to leave the tangle of his arms. She pushed her nose into his sternum, pressing a gentle kiss there, a bead of arousal pulsing between her legs.

Maybe she should be the one to wake _him_ this time.

She struggled with that temptation for a moment before deciding against it. She had too much to do today. Winter was coming, and they needed stores and preserves to see them through the worst of it. She couldn't waste half the day with Bellamy in bed, even if she wanted nothing more than to do just that, responsibilities be damned.

_ It wouldn't hurt to indulge a little_, she thought suddenly, eagerly, _really it wouldn't_.

Yes. Yes it would. And she knew it. Duty, as ever, was calling. Still…she hesitated for a beat more before finally moving to untangle her limbs from his. He was going to be the death of her—him and his sinful, precisely calibrated hips that moved with fluid grace when he set them in motion, knowing exactly where and how to press against hers until she was desperate for the feeling of him inside her, filling her, splitting her apart from the inside.

She sounded another heavy breath as she pulled his arms away from her hips with great reluctance. It wasn't her fault the boy (man, really) was a seriously skilled lover that left her shaking and boneless when he was through with her. _Now_ she knew why there'd been so many girls lining up for a night in his tent when they'd first landed…

She ignored the bitter spike of jealousy that tightened her throat at the memory of those early days, reminding herself that she had hated him then—a bully and a rabble rouser, a dissident with a silver tongue and canny, dark eyes. She'd wanted nothing more than to drop a heavy rock over his head and be done with it.

But even then, she could admit, there'd been this heady, electrical awareness of his every move, his muscular, fit body. When she'd gone after him only a day after landing, asking about the gun he carried, he hadn't said anything; he'd simply lifted his shirt to show it to her, treating her to the sight of his lean hip and the flat, tight wall of his stomach, a wicked light in his dark, dark eyes as they met hers, as if asking her if she liked what she saw, and did she want to see more. (And she had. And she did.)

"You're such a whore," she whispered to him, without any real heat, and only because he was still sleeping. She didn't _really_ think of him that way, she was just jealous of how easily, how quickly he could seduce whomever he chose. He could charm the birds from the sky with that clever tongue of his, and reluctant, guilty attraction from a logical, cool-headed girl just by lifting the hem of his shirt.

Bellamy sensed her movement and began to stir, not quite waking, but alert enough to resist moving away from her, his arms momentarily tightening around her waist. The movement dislodged a curl from his forehead, the inky coil dropping to rest in front of his eyes.

A little stab of some indefinable emotion pierced her chest, and she reached forward to wrap the lone strand around her finger, a black circlet against her pale hand. She _loved_ his hair. It was the prefect representation of the man himself: wild, vibrant, dark, rich and all too tempting to the senses.

_Love_…that word had been thrown around a lot last night, hadn't it? And not in the way she'd expected. Thinking of it now, her heart stuttered, and she struggled to swallow past the lump in her throat. What had he meant by it? _I love your eyes,_ he'd said, but she was pretty certain he meant to say something else entirely before he lost the nerve and said that instead. The expression in his eyes…she shivered just thinking about it.

_Love_. Such a heavy, worrisome word. Last night, her body still pulsing pleasantly from her forth or fifth orgasm of the night (she tended to lose track when it came to sex with Bellamy, he was just so damn good at making her come) she'd had no trouble voicing that word aloud. But now, as dawn slowly paled the sky, she found her courage floundering fast. How could she had said such a thing when she really didn't know where they stood, or what, exactly, was happening between them? It had been a month of amazing, toe-curling sex and free-floating bliss in between. She'd never had time to actually stop and think about what they were doing, and what it all meant.

And she wasn't about to start now. It could wait. She had more important things to worry about, and the status of her…informal relationship with Bellamy was a topic best left to another day.

Quickly, with a silence born of long practice, Clarke pulled away from his sleeping form and got up to dress. She would dash off to her tent to bathe (the best that could be done with cold water and a small rag) and met up with Monty at the drop ship after a quick breakfast. She tossed one last, regretful glance over her shoulder before she ducked under the flap of his tent and stepped outside into the cold air. She would almost certainty see Bellamy in a few short hours—it was their habit to meet every morning for a quick meeting to share information and compare notes on the various projects they were overseeing. All perfectly innocent and professional. Then maybe later, business out of the way, she would drag him off somewhere to have her way with him before the day was done.

Clarke snorted quietly to herself. The man was making a whore out of her. An unrepentant slut…

She took a deep cleansing breath of the cool morning air and closed her eyes, savoring the relative peace of the dawn. Who knew how many moments of peace like this she could enjoy before it all came to head. Tension with the Grounders was at an all time high, and the threat of reprisal for the events at the bridge loomed over their heads daily. For now, there was an odd ceasefire and a silence from their enemy camp, and Clarke was determined to savor every moment of peace while she could.

When she opened her eyes that peace was shattered when she suddenly realized that she was not alone. There was someone standing at the base of the ramp by the drop ship, a lone figure pausing for a moment to take a drink from the communal water supply. Her emergence from Bellamy's tent must of caught his eye, because after taking a swallow he cast his glance in her direction, lifting his eyes to meet hers, a puzzled expression on his face.

Tim. Tim Bartlett.

She froze on the spot, completely and utterly unprepared for this. She'd never, until now, ran into anyone when she ducked out of Bellamy's tent in the morning. She was always so careful, in fact, poking her head out of the tent first to cast a cautious glance around before emerging. But today she had been a bit anxious to leave, startled as she was with the question of her and Bellamy's relationship, that she hadn't taken the usual precaution.

Heat flooded her face as she fought off a blush. He was staring right at her, and even from this distance she could see that he was surprised to see her there, standing just at the threshold to the entrance of Bellamy's tent. He was looking back and forth between Clarke and the tent behind her, as if trying to puzzle out exactly what he was looking at, blinking a few times as if he doubted what he saw.

Shit. _Shit._ How could this be happening?

She didn't dare call out a greeting. In fact she just wanted to ground to open up right then and swallow her away. Better yet, she wished she could just go back in time a few seconds, and wait until he was gone before leaving Bellamy's tent. Because…because this was discovery. And no one knew yet what was going on between the two of them. It was a secret. Wasn't it? One she only now realized that she was desperate to keep.

Tim raised a hand in greeting, but when she made no response he dropped his hand and shuffled awkwardly on his feet for a beat or two before dropping his eyes from hers altogether, hesitating only a moment more before he shouldered his rifle and took off in the direction of the latrine. Pointedly and obviously ignoring her. Trying to indicate with his very body language that he did _not_ see her. Nope, didn't know she was there. Never had been, as far as he was concerned.

At least, that's what Clarke wanted to believe he was trying to say. That by some small miracle he was tacitly agreeing to pretend that he hadn't seen her, wasn't the least bit curious as to why she was leaving Bellamy's tent at this time in the morning, hair and clothes in disarray, a guilty, shell-shocked expression on her face as he walked past her.

_Please, please don't say anything,_ she silently prayed, standing as still as stone as he passed, hardly able to breathe until he was gone, completely out of sight.

Damn.

This was so _not_ good.


End file.
